


Fucked by Fear: The Eye

by comic_books_and_bars, Ptarantula



Series: Fucked by Fear [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Bugs, Canon-Typical Worms, Dead Dove: Do No Eat, Do Not Archive, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Elias was so thirsty in 120, Frottage, M/M, Trans Character, Trans!Elias, Transgender Author, Tribadism, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, asexual author, female terminology for transmale genitalia, inappropriate caretaking, mild eye horror, non-consentual exhibitionism, non-consentual somnaphilia, non-consentual voyerism, roleplay turned fic, the poor nightmare zoo didn’t ask for this, trans!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comic_books_and_bars/pseuds/comic_books_and_bars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptarantula/pseuds/Ptarantula
Summary: Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding the dreams of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Supplemental.***He felt a mix of wry pride at finally marking his own Archivist and mild disappointment at not having been able to wake him in his own twisted rendition of Sleeping Beauty.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Series: Fucked by Fear [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678831
Comments: 14
Kudos: 86





	Fucked by Fear: The Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Ahem- Please read the tags. Please. You've been warned!
> 
> I apologise in advance if we’ve forgotten any tags. I am adding them as I find ones we’ve forgotten. :<

Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding the dreams of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Supplemental.

Statement begins.

At first, the Archivist is only aware that this particular journey through his collection of nightmares is different from those that came before. The realization is but one more detail that he has no choice but to note. Still - it  _ is _ different.

Sometime between the ruined sterility of the anatomy class and the muck of the roadside coffin, he becomes aware of his metaphysical form in a way that he hasn’t been before. Something thrums beneath the surface of him, shuddering at the backs of his eyes and making them water and twitch.

Standing before the exterminator, beset upon by the ants, he can finally put a name to the feeling that has suffused him to the core. Somehow, despite everything, he is aroused.

By the time he watches the hunters stalk their prey, it is a hole sunk deep through him where the comforting numbness he usually enjoys has been carved away. When he finds himself in the final dissection room, he is mortified in a way that he hasn’t been since he existed in flesh and blood.

Only in so much as he is able, he wonders how he went from true horror to neutrality to this sickening pleasure. Is it because of or in spite of the terror and pain laid before him like an offering?

He isn’t permitted the luxury of considering this as his chin tips up and every last one of his many eyes fix themselves on the Beholding itself. It consumes him, but the hunger feels different this time.

When he finds himself again in the room where blood pools at his feet and a man weeps over an apple, he becomes aware of something else there with him.

The sense of being watched is suddenly more close, more choking. Something thrums, but it is not coming from within the Archivist. It is, in a small way, but it also comes from all around him in a way that makes the ground shudder. His eyes spin uselessly, trying to seek out what suddenly intrudes on the familiar setting.

Instead of the nightmare proceeding normally to the end, it lingers after the man in the lab coat falls pitifully into pieces on the floor.

Something slams into the Archivist and he finds himself pushed onto the cold, metal table. Two hearts are knocked to the floor with a wet slap, but they continue to beat feverishly despite the indignity. The Archivist’s body makes no sense to him in this place - all eyes and nothing resembling skin so much as void - but he knows the sensation of hands all over him.

He knows their shape and the wet slide of the blood that they carelessly smear over several of his eyes. He knows the feel of knuckles rapping against his cock and fingertips teasing at his cunt.

A firm, if invisible, entity settles upon his knees, pinning him in place. He has no doubt that, should he wish to leave this place, he would not be permitted to do so. In this dreamscape, he has no will of his own, forced as he is to watch and consume.

Each of his many eyes blink in confusion and interest. While he sees nothing, he observes much. The touch of the hands are steady and focused, comfortable with that part of his anatomy in a way that suggests their owner may possess one of its own. The pressure on his legs suggests someone of slight build - similar to his own, but perhaps taller. 

The power radiating from the entity is suffocating and dominant in such a way that the Archivist can do nothing but submit and drink it in.

And drink he does - the weight of the entity, the way their touch thunders in him like the heartbeat he no longer possesses, and their peculiar knowledge of his body. The invisible thing on him knows where to touch. It doesn’t shy away from the eyes that adorn him, touching them with gentle reverence and dipping between them to find features he’d forgotten that he had ever had.

Slim, elegant fingers find his nipples and tease them to little peaks that make the eyes bordering them squint. They trail down his stomach, petting the occasional curious eye that follows. The Archivist’s sight had never been more scattered, but he is glad to be able to focus solely on processing it.

He is even more glad not to have to bother with a reaction when the invisible fingers beat a rhythm against his cock.

There is no urgency to the entity's touches. The hand not touching his cock traces a lazy trail from hip to shoulder to gently cup his cheek. The pad of a thumb strokes the skin to the left of one of his primary eyes.

The hand touching his cock stills and the presence shifts its weight forward. Soft, warm lips pressing to each of his primary eyes, first a kiss followed by a wet tongue bathing the area thoroughly from corner to corner. The tip of the tongue traces the lines of the lids and circles the curve. It feels... worshipful.

The Archivist settles into the reverent attention, almost preening under the touch. It feels right and good in a way that his nightmare tours do not. It is also odd and definitely something to catalogue that he could feel the sensation in two places - one where his eyes are closed and another where the languid arch of a tongue strokes the cornea of his unblinking dream eyes.

Just as he is beginning to truly enjoy being served by the strange entity, the surface he is pressed to disappears. Vertigo and gravity dizzy him as he drops suddenly away into void.

Oddly enough, he is still pinned when he hits something solid. He is in a van and he is glad not to be on the road, because then he would be staring up into the sky, into the thing that beholds, and then he would be consumed too early on in the dream.

The worshiping mouth leaves off it’s kissing and licking to gently nip at the shell of his ear. A voice whispers to him softly, in a voice he almost knows but cannot place. It is at once a voice he has never heard before and one that he has heard almost daily. 

“My beautiful Archivist, you are doing so well,” the voice intones, husky with arousal and coloured with praise. The hand returns to his cock now, fingers bracketing either side and pressing down to rub sedately.

The eyes that flank his newly rediscovered cunt strain to see every minute detail of the fingers that toy with his stiff little cock. His hips twitch up against the contact without ever consulting him, but he can think of no other action he would have taken.

When the voice makes itself known and works its way into him like a distant drum beat - he is suddenly heartbroken to have no voice of his own in this place. He wants to answer, maybe to argue? Maybe just to moan his pleasure for his entity to hear and know what it had done to him.

Invisible fingers move from his cock to the entrance of his cunt. A finger teases him open before sinking in easily enough. The probing is gentler than he has grown to expect. But, even if he had the ability, he certainly wouldn’t have complained.

The voice in his ear continues to whisper gentle praises, breath hot against his skin.

“You’ve done so much better than I’d ever imagined, my Archivist,” the voice murmurs, too deep to be the one he’d thought it might have been. The cadence was right, but the tone was wrong.

“Look at you,” it whispers. “So beautiful.”

It is only the crunch of metal that makes the Archivist aware that the van is now the train car that collapses into itself again and again. A jolt of fear interrupts his hazy pleasure as he realizes what comes next - the ants, the worms, the woman.

Another finger breaches his tight hole. It hooks up to stroke his cock from the inside, firm and perfect in the technique. Would that he had lungs to cry out and that his mouth was not filled with dirt. The entity presses down upon his torso, a comforting weight as the train car contorts around its eternal passengers and they are once again crushed between screaming metal and firm packed dirt.

He is suspended between the sweet pleasure and his own cold fear, like the woman suspended in the jagged train car. And, like her, he can only exist under the intense pressure for so long before everything gives way with a pop.

He finds himself amid the ants again, down on the ground beside the exterminator where he is deafened by his screams. His own mouth, which he was sure he didn’t have moments beforehand, is still choked with dirt that now wriggles and squirms in a way that makes the Archivist ill.

His cunt throbs with a singular, stubborn pleasure even as he fights to tell whether the tickling sensations all over him are fingertips or tiny legs scurrying along to their next meal.

“Shhh, my Archivist,” the voice croons even as the Archivist begins to shudder with dread. The fingers inside of him jab firmly in spite of his muscles locking up with fear.

The gentle tickling turns sharp, and it feels as if, one by one, the ants all bite into his flesh with pin prick sharpness and pain. They trail up his arm where it is stretched close enough for the exterminator to touch before his arm is once more subsumed further in the scurrying mass. They nibble and scurry between his eyes, always frustratingly out of sight.

He whines with a throat that he knows he did not possess and it unsettles the world around them for the briefest moment before the heavy beat resumes and pounds him to the core.

The Archivist is being eaten in tiny bites, worn away by the horrors he was only meant to observe - he is sure of it.

And then, the putrid smell of burning rot pierces the air and he knows that she is there - the woman who is more holes than human in the same vein that he is more eyes than man. Had he a heart that still beat, it would be a hummingbird’s flutter in comparison to the constant thrum that overwhelms him.

He is forced to watch as she does her work while the entity works him over in turn.

Soon, he is on his back on the cold ground with soft, dewy grass pressing into the eyes on his back. Gaping holes in the earth that surround them beg to be filled with bodies. The poor woman cries from her own muddy pit to be rescued.

The cool mist is a balm to his ant-nibbled flesh, and he can almost rest in the near calm. His invisible lover moves again, shifting backwards as if to rear up and loom over his supine form. The fingers in his cunt are removed and the loss of pleasure is enough to turn him maudlin.

Staring out into the mist, he finds himself lost in the pleading cries of the woman in her grave. It is a new, wet pressure against his cunt that finally brings him back to himself. The slow grinding and smooth slide of hot, moistened flesh against his own burning need drags him back like a bolt of lightning to the spine. His form of void and eyes shifts and twists, arching up into the sweet slickness pressing in against him.

The Archivist is unable to speak, to beg or voice his pleasure - but the unseen creature on top of him knows. It can hear his needs before he can crystallize them into words.

“Let me take care of you,” it murmurs from far away, only a little out of breath. The woman continues to scream, but the Archivist pays her no mind as she offers nothing of value to the experience, nothing new or intriguing.

The rocking is slow and methodical at first. Each thrust and glide rubbing his cock against the slick folds of the entity and allowing its own equally hard nub to prod him in return. Their slick works together forming a mix of easy motion and mild suction when their cunts press together just so.

The Archivist shudders as they alternate between slide and drag. When his small cock juts against the entity’s own, the world also shudders around them like physics were a mere suggestion.

Suddenly, the soft earth gives way and the two beings tumble down into one of the open, hungry graves. Instead of changing their location, the Archivist finds himself embraced by the warm muck at the bottom - almost held and cradled in it as his cunt throbs.

Lips find their way to the Archivist’s own by way of kissing up his chest and neck. A teasing tongue swiping along each open eye in turn. 

“You’ve done so well, my love. Very well, indeed. You deserve completion, don’t you agree?”

The gentle rocking steadily builds to something needier as his invisible lover begins to moan breathily against his lips. Despite his lover’s words, the Archivist notes that he isn’t the one on the cusp of orgasm. The realization has him working his hips harder against the entity’s own. He needs to see it happen - whether he could see or not.

To his utter mortification, the scene begins to shift when he does - the welcoming dirt under him becoming the unforgiving cold of a dissection table. He wants to keep his eyes on the place where his lover ought to be - to try to put logic to the glimmer and thrum that wasn’t visible in any traditional way.

But the Eye wants to see the woman’s expression.

The woman’s silent judgment is impassive as she beholds him and his invisible love. She is, as always, disappointed with the turn of events that led him to be in her nightmares. However, a wary curiosity shines in her knowing eyes. Her mouth opens in a silent question, full lips forming the small ‘o’ of his name.

In the same instant, the entity goes suddenly rigid. Subtle tremors and a splash of wetness proclaim its orgasm.

The horror of being seen mixes into the pleasure of being beheld and being the one to cause the other’s completion. The Archivist, upon cataloguing the woman’s face, turns to catch his invisible paramour’s ecstasy.

Eyes much like his own flicker in and out of existence in the vague shape of a person. The thrum of the heartbeat is deafening, almost inside of the Archivist’s own body now. Able to see the being on top of him even a little, the Archivist grabs at it and pulls it down into a feverish kiss. Shame forgotten, he chases his own completion even as the table gives way to warm grass beneath him and the woman is whisked away.

He opens his eyes to look up, as he knows he must. He sees The Ceaseless Watcher through the haze of his lover’s indistinct body shuddering through the aftershocks of orgasm above him.

He is falling and being lifted all at once, gravity a far off impossibility compared to the power of the Eye. The Archivist reaches his completion as the eye absorbs him into itself where he belongs.

He is whole.

He is complete.

Still, his body does not stir.

\------

Elias knelt over his creation - his Archivist - who refused to wake, sweating and panting softly as he disengaged from their metaphysical coupling. Jon lay beneath him, comatose as ever and soaked over the thighs and groin with Elias’ own slick.

He felt a mix of wry pride at finally marking his own Archivist and mild disappointment at not having been able to wake him in his own twisted rendition of Sleeping Beauty.

He began to rise, but took a precious moment to lean over and whisper into Jon’s ear, “you really are doing quite well, Jon.”

He stood and swiftly replaced his clothing.

“I only hope that you can continue your growth without my guidance.”

He was just fixing his trousers when there was a knock. Making the conscious choice to linger with his buckle, he sighed.

“Come in.”

And they did. Martin’s eyes hesitated on his slim fingers finally withdrawing to smooth his suit jacket down over his belt and trousers. Their eyes met - smug and knowing meeting with confused and disbelieving.

Martin would likely rationalize this, but the suggestion would remain no matter how he tried.

**Author's Note:**

> So... that was a wild ride. Hope you liked it! Leave us a comment and let us know what you think!
> 
> Next Up: The End 
> 
> About Us: We're a queer couple and we write fucked up shit sometimes


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